Another Bloody Trail
by taylorjeanjn
Summary: It's only been a year, but things are calm. And still, the year is long; the tension hasn't left. How can it, when Harry Potter is the master of a wand that's left a bloody stain on the pages of Wizarding History? And so, the battle for the wand begins...
1. The Bloody Trail

**A/N: First off, ****J.K. Rowling owns Harry Potter and everything related to the HP universe. And she rocks.**

**This will be a medium-sized, post-DH fic with roughly fifteen chapters. It's rated T for brief occasional violence, and a swear word every now and then. For any of the romance included, I stick to canon pairs, so we have Harry/Ginny and Hermione/Ron.**

**Last but not least, special thanks to Jenny, Merrill, Megs, and Jen who all took a look at this chapter for me. Any reviews and/or concrit are welcome and very much appreciated. Especially for a HP fandom newbie like me :)**

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><p><em>The bloody trail of the Elder Wand is splattered across the pages of Wizarding history.<em>

_ -Xenophilius Lovegood, __Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows__. Copyright J.K. Rowling._

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><p>"<strong>Harry Potter Spotted with Holyhead Harpies Player Charlotte Perkins!"<strong> No.

"**How much is too much? Insiders say Potter is tired of media." **True, for once.

"**Harry Potter Voted Top Wizard Under 20."** Old news.

"**Potter to Granger: I Just Want To Be Mates!"** Huh?

"**Harry Potter: Unveiled. The inside story on the 18-year-old behind the legend. PLUS: Experts analyze the controversial rumor about the Elder Wand."**

This headline makes him stop. It's nothing new, nothing particularly original, and it graces the cover of _Magical Men—_a magazine hardly known for its accuracy. But it catches Harry's attention.

With a sigh, he opens the tabloid. Someone in line behind him clears his throat, and as much as Harry dislikes the idea of supporting companies that print garbage, he tosses a few sickles to the cashier at the store and moves to leave.

A voice behind him speaks as he nears the door. "It is true then, Don? What they say about the wand?"

Don's reply is gruff. "'Course not. I wouldn't waste a knut on rubbish like that."

"Yes, but this is Harry Potter. Potter! He defeated…well, you know. You think he could've done it with any old wand, then? He had _the_ wand."

Harry takes a slow step forward, listening.

"And what if he did? What's it to you? You going to challenge him to a duel or somethin', Tom?"

Both men laugh, and Harry turns to watch as the shorter of the two puts the magazine back. He swallows, glancing down at his own copy. If only he could leave it on the shelf too.

XXX

It's only been a year. A year since Hogwarts was nearly destroyed, leaving Lupin, Tonks, Fred, and Colin dead.

Things are calm—an idea once as elusive as Voldemort had been. And still, the year is long; the tension hasn't left. Even as Harry hands the magazine to Hermione at the Burrow, taking a seat across from her at the kitchen table, his shoulders are tense, and his headache throbs.

Hermione leafs through the glossy pages until she settles on an article about him. "Is this story like the last one you brought home?"

"Dunno. Haven't read it yet." If Harry had his way, he wouldn't read any of the stories. They unsettle him, and he just wants to move on. Apparently the rest of the world disagrees.

"One source reports, 'I didn't see the wand until later, after everything was over,'" Hermione reads. "'But I heard him clear as day. Harry was standing there, telling You-Know-Who that he had the wand's allegiance. Must have got it not long before the duel, 'cause I had Defense Against the Dark Arts with him sixth year, and...'" She stops to look up at him. "This is bad, Harry."

"Yeah. I heard two—"

"What's bad?" Ron enters the kitchen and spots the magazine in Hermione's hands. A sly grin appears on his face as he reaches for it. "_Wiz Daily _print something about you and Harry again, 'Mione?"

She holds onto the tabloid tightly. "Last time I checked, you didn't always think those stories were funny." Ron scowls and takes a seat next to her, and Hermione glances back at Harry. "Heard two what?"

"Men talking about it. One said it was garbage, the other said it's got to be true. They started joking about dueling me. I dunno."

His friends watch him as he shifts again, and it's obvious they know this bothers him. It shouldn't, but Hermione's constant worry that he's the next target for the power-hungry has him on edge, especially when he remembers how often her predictions have been correct in the past.

Hermione frowns at his words, lying smoothly to cover it up. "You don't need to worry about people like that. This sort of thing will be over soon—out of the papers."

"And the World Cup's coming up," Ron adds with enthusiasm. He catches the look on Hermione's face and switches tactics. "The wand's back with Dumbledore anyway, mate."

Harry looks between the two of them, eventually letting his gaze settle on Hermione. A twinge of annoyance seeps into his voice. "Why does it matter if it's in the papers or not? Last time I checked, you've been going on for weeks about how people will keep wanting the wand till I'm dead."

"I didn't say anything about you being _de—_"

Harry sits up in his chair, grabbing the magazine. "Yeah? It's called the _Death_stick, isn't it?"

"That doesn't mean I—" Hermione's indignant, and it's Ron who interrupts this time.

"Mione, no one's mental enough to try and beat Harry." He looks at Harry with a cautious smile. "You're s'posed to be one of the most powerful wizards of our time, right?"

If Ron's started reading the magazines too, Harry knows he's in trouble. He stands. "Yeah. Supposed to be." Holding the story in his hands, he leaves.

Back inside the kitchen, he hears hushed voices. The first to speak is Ron, clearly bewildered by his friend's sudden exit. "I thought I saw him on some 'Top 20 Under 20' list somewhere."

"Even if he wasn't, everyone's saying it." Hermione's response is short, and each word has a sharp edge. "That he's the most powerful wizard, I mean."

They're saying things Harry doesn't want to hear, and he nearly runs outside to avoid catching any more of the conversation. Too bad running has never been his strong suit.

Ron's speaks slowly as he asks, "You really think someone might…?"

This time, Hermione's response is harder to make out. It's almost as if she knows Harry's listening. "No one's ever been able to keep the wand. Not even Dumbledore, and none of us knew he had it. But this story is everywhere. What if Harry—" She breaks off, her voice catching in her throat.

Leaning against the wall, Harry listens as a chair scrapes against the floor as someone stands. Ron murmurs something he can't hear, but he assumes it's a comforting speech similar to the one Hermione had given for months after the battle at Hogwarts. The speech she occasionally continues to whisper in Ron's ear when the days get rough; even now, it's clear life without Fred has really hit Ron hard.

Ron sits back in his chair, and Harry manages to catch the last few words: "He knows what he's doing." He wonders if his friend actually believes a word he's saying.

Without waiting for more, Harry walks away.

Unfortunately, it's clear this isn't something that's going to disappear overnight. Maybe he's known this since the first Elder Wand story circulated around the world, but now, for the first time, a sick feeling takes root in the pit of his stomach. It remains long after he's tossed the magazine away.

XXX

The blood gives her location away. Normally, it might have taken days to dig through the rubble, but Richard Hepler spots a thin stream of blood, and he follows it like a trail until he finds the body. Up until a few minutes ago, possibly even seconds, she'd been alive. Maybe there's even a flicker of life left now, despite how pale she is.

Crouching down, he reaches forward with a steady hand to check his wife's pulse. He feels a faint flutter of a heartbeat there just beneath the skin. Ever so slightly, he cocks his head to the side, wipes the hair matted with blood away from her face, and looks at her. Just looks.

Hepler can help her. He can hunt up his wand, wave it around a few times, and pull her out in time to hurry her to a hospital. He can even repair the house if he tries hard enough, and life can continue on as if nothing ever happened. As if he hadn't blown their home to bits only moments ago, burying his wife beneath the broken pieces of debris that had been a functional, habitable home the day before. If he can fix the house and salvage everything that remains, maybe he can fix whatever's left of his mind, too. He can try, at least.

He doesn't.

Why would he? He hates everything about this place. The house, the woman, the thick trees with branches that have grown much too long and prick his skin as he passes. Still, he knows he can rid himself of the hate if he tries. He can yank and pull until he finally wrenches it wholly from his soul.

But he won't.

Instead, he continues to watch his wife, unaware and unconcerned by the time passing. His gaze lowers to the ground, where he spots her wand lying uselessly beside her. His own sits safely in his pocket, hitting against his leg with each step he takes. He lifts her wand up to eyelevel, ignoring the blood along its handle, and he remembers its last spell. A stinging hex, cast by a woman as she called him arrogant, self-indulgent...

"Weak." He spits the word with venom, but his voice never rises.

Hepler plays with the wand absently. If he wants, he can pull her out and cast a memory charm—make her forget the recent years. Maybe forget everything and anything at all, and he can set her loose to find someone else to live off of. It's easy enough, as long as he can find a place for her in his heart.

He can't.

So he stands, tossing her wand back to the ground, and he never looks back. He reaches the end of his property, ready to pass through those damn trees for the last time before he Apparates. But a rustling to his left catches his eye, and he turns. Resting on a branch is a gray owl, watching him with beady eyes.

He's never liked owls. Tempting as it is to hex the bird away, he pauses as he spots a brightly colored object clutched in its talons. His mind is crystal clear, and he remembers; it's the first of the month. A day his wife looked forward to because her favorite tabloid arrives.

He shoos the animal, swearing at it, but it remains stubbornly on the branch. Clearly, this one is well-trained. Annoyed, Hepler digs around in his pockets until he manages to scrounge up a few sickles. The owl swoops lower, and he shoves the money into the small pouch around the thing's neck. In a fluid motion, the owl drops the magazine on the ground and leaves.

Hepler steps on the tabloid, sure to crinkle its pages, and nearly heads on his way. But beneath his foot, on the cover of the magazine, he recognizes a wizard; even an isolated countryman like him can identify Harry Potter. Potter, who's so famous he made the front page of _Brooms, Spells, and Wands _because he'd gone out and bought himself a new robe.

He skims the headline, one eyebrow shooting up as he spots three words he's know since he was a kid: the Elder Wand. The Wand of Destiny.

Lifting the magazine from the ground, he rips through the it, ignoring the advertisements for the newest broom and the review for Gilderoy Lockhart's newest book, _Who Am I: Part III. _His eyes widen as he takes in the sketch of the Elder Wand, and he reads with a feverish intensity.

…_Wand's allegiance…most powerful…friends Ronald Weasley and Hermione Granger… Potter gives no comment…unreachable by mail…last spotted in Ottery St. Catchpole..._

Finally, after he's memorized every detail, he closes it. It's barely a lead at all, and the sources are certainly questionable. But this doesn't deter him. Nothing will. He has no money, house, job, or wife, but it doesn't matter. He feels a sense of excitement—of _life_—that he hasn't felt before.

Touching the handle of his wand, he murmurs a quiet spell he learned a long time ago, and then says it again just to be sure he's untraceable.

For the first time, Hepler notices that the blood from his hands has stained the pages, soiling Potter's name and picture. He can clean it with magic, but he doesn't bother. Instead, he rolls the magazine up and easily tosses it onto the dirty ground, gingerly stepping over it. It feels strange to leave something so influential in a place he hates, but this isn't a problem.

If he changes his mind, he can always pick up a new copy on his way to Ottery St. Catchpole.


	2. What's Coming Will Come

**A/N: J.K. Rowling owns the Harry Potter universe, and I'm making no money from this fic. Again, thanks so much to all the people who read over this chapter for me, subscribed, or reviewed! Huzzah for the four reviews!**

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><p><em>What's comin' will come, an' we'll meet it when it does.<em>

_-Rubeus Hagrid, __Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire__. Copyright J.K. Rowling._

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><p>Hepler doesn't like small towns, and Ottery St. Catchpole is no exception. As he wanders the streets, people stare as if they've never seen a stranger before. Maybe this is why Potter lives here. It's secure, safe, and hardly welcoming to outsiders.<p>

A mother and her daughter pass him as he exits a tiny bookstore he's found. He waves them over, prepared to ask about Potter, but the woman brushes him off with a hurried apology. He fingers the edge of his wand in agitation.

If she was a witch, he may have done a simple hex or curse, but not on a Muggle. Not because he respects them, or pities them, or cares if they're injured; no, he has a clean record with the Ministry of Magic—one he intends to keep. It's easier to go unnoticed that way.

It's getting dark, and Hepler spots a tiny pub on the street corner. He takes a detour from his searching and heads inside. There are a few families and couples scattered around small tables, but the bar is nearly empty, save for one red-faced man who's well on his way to a bad morning.

Hepler takes a seat a few feet away and orders a Muggle beer. He watches the guy out of the corner of his eye, asking, "Do you live here?" The man brings a bottle to his lips and nods. "Then you know Harry Potter?"

"Don't know no Potter. I know a…a Percy. Ugly bloke, got in some trouble back with his girl a couple o' years ago. 'Er name was Mary or somethin'. Marla? Molly?"

The bartender appears with Hepler's drink and turns to the other man. "You're thinking of Peter, love. Not Percy."

The man stands, unsteady on his feet. "Yeah. 'S what I said. Peter."

XXX

Hepler wanders the streets, but he never meets Potter. He asks, even threatens on occasion, but his searches are still futile. So every night, he finds himself in a seat next to the same drunken man who tells the story of Peter (who is sometimes called Percy, sometimes called Paul, and once called William on a particularly off night).

Apparently the kid ran off in the early hours of the morning, didn't say goodbye to anybody, and ended up getting mugged and shot shortly after running away.

On the fifth night in the town, Hepler grows tired of hearing about the same boy. Finally, he asks the bartender why this is the only story the drunkard tells, and he finds out why the man drinks. Peter was his son.

XXX

It's been a week. A week of nothing, and Hepler decides it's time to leave. If Potter lives in such a small town, he surely would've come out by now. Or _someone_ would've recognized the name and pointed him in the right direction.

He should've known Ottery St. Catchpole was a dead end. It's a Muggle town, full of people with too much time on their hands. But still, he waits. _One more day_, he tells himself. One more day and he'll get the breakthrough he needs.

He's right.

XXX

"Look! There 'e is!" Peter's dad, drunk as ever, points towards a redheaded man who's just entered the pub, a girl with equally striking hair trailing behind him. "I told'ja there's a guy named Percy 'round here! Percy Weasley!"

_Weasley_? Hepler sits up in his chair, watching the pair of redheads as they take a seat at one of the tables. Percy, clearly upset, fixes his glasses as he prattles on about his job. The girl (who Hepler assumes is the man's sister) listens with a frown. Once a waitress stops by their table, Weasley stands and makes his way to the restroom in the back of the pub.

Hepler instantly follows, waiting just outside the door. He rests his hand against the edge of his wand.

Finally, the door reopens, and Hepler steps in front of Weasley as he moves to leave. "You're Percy Weasley." The man blinks, clearly taken aback. Impatient, Hepler continues. "You know Harry Potter."

The man stands up straighter, narrowing his eyes. "Who're you?"

Weasley's smart. Smart enough to keep quiet about things that matter, at least. But the obvious look of distrust in his eyes tells Helper enough. It borders on fear, and he knows what that means; Weasley's hiding something.

Hepler doesn't bother to respond. Instead, he checks the deserted hallway to make sure they're alone, grasps his wand, and points it at Weasley. "_Imperio_!"

XXX

Hepler quietly follows Weasley back to his seat, and he places himself at a nearby table so he can watch his work play out. There's an airy quality to Weasley as he finds his way back to the table, but it's so subtle that no one notices the difference. Not even his sister, though by the look of it, the two aren't exactly close.

Weasley sits stiffly in his chair. "Where's Harry?"

"He's back at the house." The girl's confused, but it's obvious she doesn't suspect a thing. Apparently Potter's a common topic of discussion.

"Does he live there?" Weasley's sister doesn't answer. Instead, she sits back in her chair, watching her brother. Hepler glares at the girl, and Weasley presses for more information. "Where does he live?" Still nothing. Weasley's voice turns harsh. "Where?"

The sister stands and looks around the pub. Her gaze briefly lands on Hepler, but he doesn't flinch. She breaks eye contact. "Perce, I don't know if this is something for your job or…" Perhaps it's Hepler's imagination, but she seems to glance his way again. "I don't know. But I'm leaving."

Hepler knows he can follow her if he wants. Maybe she'll lead him straight to Potter. But without an invisibility cloak, he knows he'll never manage to make it all the way to her house undetected, wherever that may be. Even if he does, he'll never be able to beat Potter that way—too many people.

He watches the girl storm off, and once he's sure she's gone, he moves to stand in front of Weasley. "Come with me," he says.

XXX

Harry tosses a Quaffle at the goal he and Ron have set up, and Ron deflects it, grinning. He prepares to try again, pausing as he spots Percy stumbling over to the Burrow nearly an hour after an irritated Ginny returned home.

Percy approaches the two of them, holding a paper in his hand. He shoves it at Harry. "Take it."

Harry blindly accepts it, taking a step back. "What is it?"

"Read it."

Ron appears next to Harry, raising an eyebrow at his brother. "Weren't you bossy enough as Head Boy?"

Harry unfolds the paper. It's a page entitled "Symptoms of Mental and Emotional Instability" ripped out of some self-help book. He looks up at Percy. "Mental…?"

Biting back a laugh, Ron reaches for the page, and Percy swats his hand away. "Don't touch it. It's for Harry. Only for Harry."

Ron opens his mouth to shoot back a retort, but Harry doesn't listen. He flips the sheet over and finds something handwritten in neat ink on the back. He scans the note:

_Potter,_

_On my scenic tour of a little town called Ottery St. Catchpole today, I met a pair of redheads. Imagine my surprise as someone at the bar tells me they go by the name Weasley. It's a wizard name. A pureblood name. A name I've recently read in a magazine my wife used to enjoy._

_Still, the name doesn't matter, does it? It's not as famous as yours. Not as important. Not as intriguing._

_I want to meet the boy behind the legend. Tomorrow at noon, you'll find me in the pub on the street corner in the middle of the town. Come alone. _

It isn't signed.

Harry's mouth is dry as his arm numbly falls to his side. "Ron."

His friend doesn't respond; he's too busy telling his brother to stop acting like a git. Harry elbows him, ready to say his name more forcefully, when Percy abruptly Disapparates. Ron swears, turning to look at Harry.

"No wonder he was driving Ginny mad."

"What'd he say?" Harry's quiet, barely opening his mouth as he speaks. The letter feels heavy in his hand.

"Telling me to go off and mind my own business. Must be serious about that 'instability' stuff." Annoyed as he is, Ron clearly can't help but smirk.

"It's not the—Ron, someone's written a letter on the back. Telling me to meet them at the pub in town."

Not bothering to ask for clarification, Ron snatches the paper away, holding it in front of him to read. Once he's done, he hands it back. "Sounds like some nutter who wants an autograph." His tone is cool.

"I can't give an autograph unless I'm alone?"

"Like I said, the guy's mental." Without waiting for Harry, Ron heads inside the Burrow.

XXX

Hermione isn't as calm about the letter as Ron is, but that's to be expected. Harry can't think of a single time Ron's ever been more nervous than Hermione. Maybe when he'd been forced to wear the Horcrux and his family was at risk while Hermione's was off in Australia, but even that's something of a stretch.

Hermione holds the letter, reading it over again as she sits on Ron's bed. "You're sure it was Percy who gave it to you?"

It's difficult to keep the trace of annoyance out of his voice as Harry answers her question for the third time. "Yeah. He told me to read it, then once I did, he Disapparated."

"And he wasn't acting like himself? You're sure he didn't say who gave it to him?" Another repeat question.

"Yeah."

"Do you recognize the handwriting?"

"No."

"Did he say anything else to you?"

"No."

Harry feels as if he's being interrogated. Still, at least Hermione doesn't constantly scowl at the letter like Ron does as he sits on the floor silently.

"Which direction did he come fr—?"

"Hermione."

"Sorry. It's just…what if whoever wrote this is dangerous? Why else would they tell you to come alone? It's strange enough without Percy acting like he is."

Ron finally speaks up, his words nearly overlapping with Hermione's. "Just ignore the thing then. You're going to the Ministry tomorrow anyway. You won't be around to sign his face or whatever the hell wants from you. We'll ask Percy where he got the paper from when he's done being a prat." He frowns as Hermione looks at him, clearly thinking something over. "What?"

"Nothing." She opens her mouth and closes it again as the stairs creak just outside the room. "I'm going to ask Ginny if she saw anything." Standing up with the letter in hand, Hermione heads for the door. She turns to look at Harry seriously. "I'd stay away from Percy if I was you." She pauses, and then glances at Ron. "Both of you."


	3. Only Power

**A/N: Mad props to J.K. Rowling for inventing Harry Potter. This is a day early in honor of Deathly Hallows Part 2, which I saw at the midnight premiere. There was this awesome guy in a full Mad-Eye Moody costume there. My friend took a picture with him.**

**Reviews are very much appreciated!**

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><p><em>There is no good or evil…only power and those too weak to seek it.<em>

_ -Quirinus Quirrell, __Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone__. Copyright J.K. Rowling._

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><p>Three years ago, Harry told Dolores Umbridge he wanted to be an Auror. While he's already fought enough dark wizards to last him a lifetime, it's a job that appeals to him, even now. He knows that nothing will ever be as trying as the recurring battles against Voldemort, and he'll never be happy without a job involving the Dark Arts.<p>

He's taken a year off, staying with the Weasleys, but he's starting to get restless. He figures he can find a job somewhere at the Ministry, even if they'd been on opposing sides the previous year.

He sits down on a bench outside some office, the letter from yesterday in the back of his mind. Hermione's next to him with Ron by her side. A slight frown decorates Ron's face, and he watches the closed office door cautiously. Just that morning, he'd been perfectly content to let Harry and Hermione find jobs alone while he slept in at home. Mrs. Weasley disagreed.

Ron taps his fingers against his leg. "We didn't even take our N.E.W.T.s. The best job I'll get is the bloody welcoming committee."

"At least your mum'll be happy."

"Shut up, Harry."

Hermione rolls her eyes at them. Somehow, she appears even more uncomfortable than Ron is. While the three of them had been busy searching for Horcruxes, they had bigger worries than the tests their classmates were taking back at school. But now, with her parents safely back and living with her in Ottery St. Catchpole—their old home had been foreclosed when the bills stopped being paid, but she'd still nearly had to beg—Hermione's nervous energy has found a whole new set of problems to obsess over: the papers, the Elder Wand, a job.

Sometimes Harry reckons she even spends a good deal of her time worrying about Ron and her relationship with him, but Harry can't be sure. She'd hardly talk to him about something like that. Still, things seem to be going well for the two of them, though they keep the snogging to a minimum when he's around.

The door opens, and an elderly wizard with dark hair and a beard emerges. He greets them with a nod and shakes their hands with a strong grip. "I'm Joseph Dean, Assistant to the Minister. He apologizes that he can't be here himself, but he's in a meeting with the Head of the Department of Mysteries." He beckons them into his office.

Harry takes his seat first, far calmer than his friends. Ron's eyes dart around the room, and Hermione sits stiffly. Harry's already been promised a job; his friends haven't.

Mr. Dean takes a seat across from them, resting an elbow on his desk. He watches Ron with an unreadable expression. "You don't like our welcoming committee?"

"Your welco—?" Ron breaks off, horror dawning on his face. "No, that's not—what I meant was…your welcoming committee's brilliant! Really…welcoming."

"So that's the position you'll pursue here at the Ministry?"

"I, uh, I could. I was kind of thinking something more like, y'know, Auror. Or I could be one of those people who work in the Department of…Games and Sports…" He scratches the back of his neck, flushing.

Mr. Dean's laugh cuts Ron off, putting him out of his misery. His voice is warm as he says, "Arthur told me you like Quidditch. I'm sure there's a job for you there. Though if that's the department you're most interested in, I'd wait to start until the Cup's over. Things have been chaotic around here, because we're trying to make it up to all the fans after having to delay everything a year."

Ron's eyes widen, his face still bright red. "You'll let me in?"

Hermione's just as surprised. "Without our N.E.W.T.s? But I thought—"

Harry knows why she's upset. Months after the battle, she'd returned to Hogwarts to take the test. Of the three of them, she's the only one who did. Ron thought going back to take the N.E.W.T.s was a stupid idea, and Harry had to agree. But that didn't stop Hermione.

Apparently, Mr. Dean knows this as well. "I saw your marks, Ms. Granger. Very impressive."

"You did?" Hermione asks. Now Ron's not the only one blushing. Nothing more than a tiny smile plays on Hermione's lips, but Harry knows better. She's thrilled.

XXX

Harry's supposed to have a job, but he can't help wonder if something's gone wrong. Mr. Weasley is meeting with Joseph Dean to talk over the possible jobs for the three of them, and he's been gone for nearly an hour.

Harry and Hermione are done eating lunch, and Ron's just finishing his second sandwich from home when Mr. Weasley enters his office to find the three of them lounging around. As soon as he walks through the door, the three of them perk up.

Somehow, Ron manages to speak through his food. "What'd he say? Took you ages to come back."

"Sorry, Ron. I had to make a quick run back home to pick up something I'd left." Mr. Weasley pulls out an object from his pocket. "Look! I wanted to show Arnie Winson this light switch I found at a Muggle store the other day."

"Dad! You went _home_? What about our jobs?"

Mr. Weasley pockets the light switch. "Ah, your jobs! Joe said you've—Arnie! I've got something to show you!"

A man who Harry guesses is in his late forties stops outside the door and sticks his head in the office. The man runs a hand through his dark brown hair, and he doesn't seem at all like the type of person Mr. Weasley would like. He has great bags under his eyes, and he looks as if he hasn't smiled in days. Then again, Mr. Weasley hadn't looked much different for months after Fred's death.

"Afternoon, Arthur."

Apparently the man doesn't always look like this, because Mr. Weasley takes a step closer to him, the light switch all but forgotten. "Arnie? What happened?"

The man sucks in a deep breath. "They think they know who killed Sarah."

With a sideways glance at Harry, Ron, and Hermione, Mr. Weasley clears his throat. "Who?"

"They're saying it was her husband. Last time anyone saw him was…hell, no one knows. But his wand's gone, and he wasn't in the house either. They're handing out flyers in the main entranceway, hoping someone knows where he is. At least to see if he knows anything."

Mr. Weasley obviously wants to ask more, but instead he turns to Harry, Ron, and Hermione and says, "Come on, you three. I'll walk you out." As he leads the way out the door, he pats Arnie's back.

XXX

The entryway into the Ministry is just as crowded as ever as people return back from their lunch break. Some of them stare at Harry as he passes, a few greet him, and one asks for an autograph for her daughter. With a quill the woman hands him, Harry quickly signs some newspaper article about him, then he catches up to Mr. Weasley as he navigates the crowd.

As they walk past a large fountain in the middle of the main room, a woman steps in their path, holding a paper out in front of her. "Arthur? Have you talked to Arnie yet? He went upstairs looking for you."

"I saw him up in the offices." Harry watches as Mr. Weasley takes the paper. On it is a picture of a middle-aged wizard with brown hair and dull blue eyes. It's taken from somewhere outside, and the man leans against a tree, looking out with a thin smile. Occasionally he roughly brushes some of the branches away so they don't cover his face, or he runs a hand through his graying hair.

Mr. Weasley is silent, staring down at the picture in his hands. A few seconds later, he looks up at the lady front of him. "You're sure this is the right person?"

"He was her husband, yes."

Mr. Weasley speaks slowly. "He works for the American Ministry. He's offered my son Percy a job there."

The woman's eyebrows shoot up. "You know him?"

Mr. Weasley starts towards the exit, ignoring the witch with the flyers as she asks questions behind him. "I just met him ten minutes ago. Percy brought him to the house."

XXX

Hepler grins easily, his hand resting on his wand, where it sits next to him on the couch. He watches the redheaded woman carefully for any sign of movement, ready to hurt her if he must. "Potter's friends with your son, is he not?"

Molly Weasley nods curtly. "They met on the train on their way to their first year at Hogwarts. Hermione, too."

"Hermione?" he repeats, sitting up. He assumes this is the Hermione Granger referenced in the magazine, but he asks anyway. "Who is she?"

"Ron's girlfriend. He doesn't like me talking much about it, especially when his brothers are around, but they've been—"

Hepler doesn't give a damn about the other boy's love life. "Who is she to Potter?"

"His other best friend. Ron says she's the smartest of the three of them. Keeps the lot of them out of trouble. Well, she tries, at least."

"Where are they now?"

The woman frowns. "At the Ministry. Well, they're supposed to be."

"You believe they're not?"

"Ron's probably gone off by himself to buy that Quidditch jersey he keeps asking me about instead."

"Why does he want a Quidditch jersey?"

"For the World Cup."

He opens his mouth to ask another question, but he's interrupted by a loud pop as someone Apparates into the room. He instantly erases Mrs. Weasley's memory and jumps to his feet as more people appear. As he Disapparates, he manages a glance at a familiar face with a lightning scar.

XXX

In a deserted area not far from the Weasley house, Hepler finds Percy exactly where he told him to hide until told otherwise.

"You said no one would stop by for hours." He slashes his wand through the air and watches as a gash appears on Percy's cheek. Still, no satisfaction comes from this; Percy barely even flinches, though he walks around like a puppet whenever he isn't given something to do, so Hepler has to wonder if pain even registers at all. "Who was that? Did you tell someone to come find me? _Answer me_."

"I sat behind the tree, like you said."

"Did you tell anyone you were here? Did you move from where I left you?"

"No."

"Just in case…" Hepler scowls and points his wand at Percy. "_Incarcerous_!" He watches as ropes wrap around Percy's body, then he sits on the ground nearby, pulling a tiny vial out of his pocket. He lifts it up, frowning. "I wasted all my Veritaserum finding out your brother's got a girlfriend he met on a train."

He slices his wand through the air again, and another cut appears on Percy's face.

XXX

It's getting dark and windy, but Hepler knows he can't go to the tiny hotel he's been living in since he arrived in town. He figures it's already been difficult enough smuggling Percy in undetected, but now that the Weasleys have to know something's wrong (maybe even that Percy's cursed), he doesn't dare move elsewhere even if it's been hours since he'd nearly been caught.

He tries to sleep in an area crowded with trees that soften the wind's blow slightly. He can Apparate somewhere else, he supposes, but with a night so silent, he fears that may draw too much attention to himself.

He can't risk that. Not now, when he's finally found Potter. He's seen the boy in the flesh, even if only for an instant. An exhilaration courses through his veins, and a sense of euphoria fills him with each breath he takes.

As Hepler closes his eyes, he can almost feel the Elder Wand's worn handle in his palm, noticing every knot and ridge and bump. It's light—surprising for something with such great power. And such immense potential. Perhaps that's the most important thing of all: The wand has no limit, and this means _he _has no limit. For the first time, he won't be a slave to circumstance.

With Potter so close, it's easy for Hepler to forget the Elder Wand isn't already his.


	4. An Obsession

**A/N: Yet again, J.K. Rowling owns Harry Potter and all the other lovely people/places/randomness that relate to his world. Thanks so very much for reviews and all those who were awesome in helping me get ready to post this.**

**There's a little nod at J.K. Rowling in this chapter. Lemme know if you catch it. I'll give you a…pony? Also, there's just a tiny, tiny bit of foreshadowing here too, so if anybody picks up on anything and/or has any theories (particularly about Hepler's past), tell me about those, too. I'd love to hear them :)**

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><p><em>For him, the Elder Wand has become an obsession…<em>

_ -Albus Dumbledore, __Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows__. Copyright J.K. Rowling._

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><p><em>Potter,<em>

_I won't wait. I know you plan to attend the Quidditch Cup, and I'd highly suggest you…_

Hepler crosses out what he's written and crumples the letter up into a ball, shoving it away from him. He sits on the cement and leans against a brick building in Edinburgh. It's a place he once visited and populous enough that no one bothers giving him a second glance.

His near run-in with Potter three days ago was too close, and he knows it's necessary to take a small break from Ottery St. Catchpole. But he's not worried. After all, he left Percy Weasley alone with strict orders not to move from his hiding place behind a few trees.

Tearing another sheet of paper from a notebook he found in a Muggle store, he starts again.

_Potter, _

_By now you must know I'm not a kind man hoping to befriend you. My name is Richard Hepler and…_

He scribbles the words out again, watching fat raindrops land on the paper, smearing the words on the page. He tosses the newest letter to the side, standing and brushing himself off. He shakes his head, getting rid of some of the excess water on his face, head, and neck.

Pausing to think, Hepler looks up at the sky, gray with clouds and the occasional flash of lightning. He moves away from the wall and makes his way over to a building across the street. He wanders up a flight of stairs, finally stumbling upon a café called Nicholson's. After spotting a small black table near a window, he sits down and takes one last look at the rain outside.

Then, as if from magic, the words come to him. He finishes his letter.

XXX

Hepler never forgets a name and face. But more often than not, this is a curse. With the exception of a few rarities, there isn't a personal alive (or dead) that he wants to remember.

But now, for once, this particular talent proves itself useful. If he happened to have the memory of a goldfish, as many unfortunate people do, he never would have found himself outside a large brown house in the English countryside.

After all, he's only been to this place once. Nearly a year ago, his wife had demanded they pay their respects to a poor family who'd lost their daughter as she fought at the infamous Battle at Hogwarts against Lord Voldemort.

But that's not why he's here this time; he remembers his wife telling him about how Mr. _Brown _bought his wife tickets to the Quidditch World Cup, and how _he _planned ahead enough to get them, and how _he _cared enough about his wife's interests to give her things.

Hepler needs tickets, though this isn't because he's so easily entertained that he'll pay almost every galleon he ever earned to watch wizards and witches fly on a broom to toss a ball through a hoop.

No, he assumes Potter plans to attend the Quidditch World Cup with his ginger friend, and Hepler thinks he may have better luck catching the boy away from the Weasley home. He doesn't know if a ticket is necessary to get into the general vicinity of the stadium, but he isn't taking chances. This could be his only chance to catch Potter unawares.

He points his wand at a locked door in the front of the house. There's an audible click, and he quietly pushes the door open. Not for the first time, he's grateful the Second Wizarding War is over. Now that there isn't a known threat looming, wizards are basking in their new freedom and peace. In short, they've grown stupid. There's hardly any security at all.

For Hepler, getting what he wants is as easy as taking money from a Muggle.

He slips inside the door to find himself in an entryway. With his wand still in hand, he murmurs, "_Homenum Revelio._"

After he's sure there's no one else inside the house, he passes by a large picture of a brunette girl with hair so light it's nearly blonde. Her eyes are a pale blue and she wears a pink headband. She appears to be around sixteen or seventeen years old at the time the photo was taken.

Hepler never met her, but he knows she's the one who died. Rumor has it her death was the result of some nasty encounter with Fenrir Greyback at Hogwarts.

Raising an eyebrow at the thought, he enters the study. Almost immediately, he spots a black desk tucked away in the corner, and he slinks over to it. The top of it is cluttered, but there aren't any tickets in sight, so he begins digging through the drawers. He riffles through magazines and bills before crouching down to pull at the handle of a small metal cabinet to the side of the desk.

It's locked. Grinning to himself, he points his wand at the metal lock, and it swings open. As he digs through the papers the family appears to think are important, his fingers finally brush against two smooth tickets for the Cup. He snatches them up and heads back to the entryway, where he's left the door open.

Just outside, he hears a voice. "…Didn't know I left…"

Hepler doesn't wait to hear the rest. He steps through the open door, and a woman looks up at him in surprise. Before she can respond, he flicks his wand at the unwelcome intruder, and she collapses onto the ground.

He approaches the place the woman and recognizes her instantly. "Mrs. Brown," he says coolly, nodding at her unconscious body. With another flick of his wand, he makes sure she won't remember him (or what happened to her Quidditch tickets) at all. Instead, she'll tell her husband she gave them away to a pair of friends at work who she'd taken pity on.

As he walks past her, ready to mail his newest letter to Potter, he gives the woman an apathetic glance. "So sorry to hear about Lavender."

XXX

"I told you, I've already got the job! I don't _need _to get a new pair of—"

"You'll need new robes for your first day! First impressions are important. _Ron_! Put that jersey down and listen to me."

"We came to a Quidditch store! So I can buy _Quidditch_ stuff."

"You can't keep wasting your money on rubbish you'll never—"

"Hey Mum, isn't that Ginny at the counter buying another Snitch?"

"Don't try and change—Ginny!" Harry watches as a red-faced Mrs. Weasley turns away from Ron and hustles over to the counter to stop Ginny from buying her second snitch in the last few months.

He's not sure why Mrs. Weasley doesn't like that her daughter's buying yet another Snitch, because money isn't as much of an issue as it used to be. Partly because Mr. Weasley's been promoted, and partly because of George.

George has been working harder than Harry's ever seen; nearly all his time is spent on Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes. He doesn't seem overly interested in inventing new sweets and products, but that hasn't slowed business any if the money he sends to his family is anything to go by.

But the money doesn't matter. Everyone—Harry included—would rather have the old George back. This new George doesn't come back to visit as much as they'd like, and the few times Harry's seen him, he's noticed a smile rarely reaches George's eyes.

The only time Harry saw him act like his old self was when Angelina Johnson stopped by his shop one day, wondering if he'd like to catch up sometime (and to ask if she could get a discount on a Pigmy Puff. George gave it to her, much to Ron's annoyance).

Ron interrupts Harry's musings. "Hope Ginny doesn't tell Mum I was the one wanting the Snitch. I told her to go and pick one out while you were looking at that broom." He doesn't wait for a response. "I think she's gone mental."

Harry looks up from the pack of Quidditch trading cards in his hands. "Who? Ginny?"

"No, I mean Mum. Ginny's always been mental." Harry gives his friend a dark look, opening his mouth, but Ron continues before he can say anything. "Bet Mum only came so she can make sure that guy from yesterday doesn't show up anywhere. And to stop us from buying anything good."

"She could be here looking for Percy."

"Dunno why she'd try. She said he told her he was going out of town. When he brought that crazy bloke to the house."

Harry's hesitant. "You… reckon? That he's gone out of town for work?"

"How am I s'posed to know?" Ron slouches slightly, walking past Harry to reach for Galvin Gudgeon's autobiography entitled Still Chugging Along: Life As the Chuddley Cannon's Not-So-Popular Keeper.

Unsure what to say, Harry watches Mrs. Weasley talk to Ginny at the front of the store. Ever since Percy brought that American Ministry worker to the house, everyone's been on edge. Mrs. Weasley doesn't remember what happened while he was there, and if that's not suspicious enough, Percy hasn't returned home since.

Mrs. Weasley hardly lets any of them leave the house alone, Mr. Weasley has an Auror friend of his on the lookout for Richard Hepler, and even Ginny's admitted how unsettling the past few days have been. And none of them know about Percy giving Harry the letter a few days earlier. But Ron, who knows as much about this Hepler guy as any of them, hasn't said a thing.

Harry would ask why he's so silent, but he can venture a pretty good guess on his own. Ron's not stupid; he knows something's wrong. He just won't say it out loud, if he even acknowledges it at all. But Harry can't blame him. Even if Percy and Ron aren't close, Harry knows that the idea of losing another brother has to be more than Ron can stomach.

It's almost more than Harry can stomach himself. It's impossible to ignore the connection between the man who sent the letter and the one Percy brought home to meet Mrs. Weasley, and Harry feels like whatever's already happened is just the beginning. And it's clear that this Hepler isn't after Ron or Hermione—if he was, he would've sent _them_ the letter.

Yet again, Harry's managed to draw trouble to him like a magnet, and this time he's done it single-handedly. If he didn't live with the Weasleys, it'd be safe to assume they never would've come across Hepler. And it's Harry's fault if Percy's cursed like Hermione thinks. If he's lost or hurt, or even—

Mrs. Weasley reappears, Ginny following sullenly behind her with empty hands. "Harry, dear, I think I'd better get you lot home. Quality Quidditch is closing up for the day."

He forces a smile onto his face. "Right. I'll meet you out front. I just want to buy something before we leave."

XXX

Once he's sure Mrs. Weasley won't see him, Harry knocks on Ginny's bedroom door, holding the Quality Quidditch Snitch she wanted behind his back. There's a brief pause, and then Ginny opens the door.

He looks over her shoulder, surprised to see Hermione sitting on the floor near Ginny's bed. Temporarily forgetting the Snitch, he asks, "Where've you been? Haven't seen you since we got back." Hermione's absence is probably another contributing factor to Ron's bad mood, but Harry doesn't mention that.

Ginny takes Harry's arm and pulls him into her room, softly shutting the door behind them. She turns to frown at Hermione. "Are you going to tell him?"

Hermione scowls. "Of course I am. I told you I would."

"Tell me—?"

Ginny ignores Harry, letting go of his arm and plopping down on her bed. "I wouldn't if I was you. He'll do something stupid."

"Well, you can't expect me to—"

"Fine. Tell him. Don't let me get in your way."

Harry scowls at the two of them as they talk as if he isn't even there. "Tell me _wha_—?"

Hermione pulls a piece of paper from her pocket. "I got a letter, Harry. Right after you left."

Reaching for it, Harry winces. "Don't tell me it's more hate mail."

A few months back, _Magical Men_ ran a story about a supposed secret engagement between Harry and Hermione, and she'd received a decent amount of mail from different girls who were convinced she'd stolen their chance at being Mrs. Harry Potter out from under them.

And she wasn't the only one. Harry had his fair share of tear-stained letters begging him to get a divorce. After that, he'd gone to the Ministry for help, and they'd been kind of enough to cast a spell that made him unreachable by all unapproved mail. Stubbornly, Hermione refused to do the same.

"It's not. It's not even for me; it's for you. They must have known I'd show you." Hermione sighs, casting Ginny a sideways glance. "I think you'd do better to just read it yourself."

Uncertainly, he takes it, leaning back against Ginny's dresser as he begins to read:

_Potter,_

_Meet me in the empty field to the west of your beloved Weasley home tomorrow at noon. Come alone. If you choose otherwise, you should be warned. I'm not a weak man. I'm not afraid of you._

_You may believe you're invincible because you possess a wand with unparalleled power, but this is a mistake. I'm growing impatient waiting for you to realize this. You're running out of time._


	5. A Difficult Life

**A/N: J.K. Rowling owns. In more ways than one. On another note, not a whole lot of Hepler in this chapter, but it's my fav so far. Just so you all know, as of right now it looks like this fic needs to go on a bit of a hiatus, but if I have something to post by next week, I'll be sure to do that :)**

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><p><em>Wow, I wonder what it would be like to have a difficult life.<em>

_ -Harry Potter, __Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix__. Copyright J.K. Rowling._

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><p>Morning comes too soon. Harry feels as if he's barely managed to blink, let alone sleep. It's getting harder to ignore everything that's happening with the letters and Percy, and if the worrying isn't enough to keep him up at night, the guilt sure is. Even with the letter tucked safely away in the pocket of his pants, the words it contains repeat themselves over and over in his head.<p>

They're words he's familiar with: alone, mistake, running out of time. Each one represents a different issue he's already dealt with at least once. By now, he should know how to handle the stress, the fear, the anger. He should know better than anyone how to deal with the situation at hand. But he doesn't.

Harry supposes it'll be easier coming up with a logical plan when he's not living off of four hours of sleep. When his head doesn't ache, and his eyes don't strain to open. When he doesn't want to bury himself underneath the covers and stay there.

Clearly, if he wants to get anywhere, his first plan of action should be rolling over and sleeping for the next day or two.

But Ron clearly has a different idea as he tries to prod Harry awake. "Come on," Ron says. Harry feels his blanket being tugged away, but he ignores it. "Either Hermione or my mum"—poke—"is going to come in here" –sharper poke—"if we're not downstairs in ten minutes."

Harry slowly opens his eyes. "I'm up. Dunno why, though. The sun's not even out."

"Yeah, it is."

Feeling particularly argumentative, Harry scowls at his friend. "No, it's not. It's dark in here."

Ron points at the window, smirking. "I've got curtains. 'Member?" Harry doesn't answer, so Ron continues, "Breakfast's down in the kitchen. You better grab some, or we'll all have to hear Mum talk about how thin you'll get. No one wants that, 'specially since she finally started being happy about how 'healthy' you look. Says it only took you eight years to do it, too."

"I'll get some later."

"When? You can't buy food at the Cup. It'll cost you ten sickles just to get a water."

The Cup…?

Harry suddenly remembers why Ron's waking him up in the first place, and that helps tremendously. Summoning up whatever energy he has, he rolls out of bed. Sleep or no sleep, he's just as ready to leave for the Quidditch World Cup as anyone.

XXX

Nine and a half minutes later, Harry appears in the kitchen on the first floor of the Burrow. Hermione's already arrived, busy declining breakfast from Mrs. Weasley, and Ginny's eating a piece of toast at the table.

Mrs. Weasley turns to face him from where she's standing near the counter. "Harry! I was just on my way upstairs. Before you go, have a muffin. Or we have toast, pumpkin juice, maybe some fruit if I can…" She continues listing off foods, but Harry's distracted by her appearance. She has dark bags under her bloodshot eyes, and her words are a brisker than usual. Apparently Harry isn't the only one who didn't sleep well.

Harry tunes back in just in time to hear her say, "…Arthur can't come this year."

"Sorry, Mrs. Weaslely, but he can't come where?"

Her response is short. "The Quidditch Cup, dear."

"But I thought—"

"He needs to look for Percy. I'm sure you'll be able to sell his ticket."

Ron appears behind Harry, squeezing his way into the kitchen. "Perce already told us where he is. Getting ready to work for the American Ministry, remember?"

Mrs. Weasley purses her lips. "Yes, that's what he said. Now, are you all packed? Got more than just that Quidditch jersey? What about your wand?"

"It's…" Ron pauses, clearing his throat. "Be right back." He leaves the kitchen with a frowning Mrs. Weasley in tow.

Harry grabs a cup of pumpkin juice, and Hermione approaches. "Do you still have the letters? Both of them?"

"'Course."

"I think you should leave them here with Ron's parents."

Ginny's head shoots up, and she stares at Hermione. "The last thing my mum needs is another reason to worry about all of us."

"The letter told Harry to meet Hepler in the field at noon today. Don't you think they should know? Maybe Percy will be there, too."

"Yeah, along with the maniac sending the letters," Harry says.

"Well, if you won't show the first letter to them, fine. But the second one is technically mine; it was addressed to me, after all. And I want them to see it. If they don't know what's going on, how are they supposed to know what to watch out for?"

Sighing, Harry pulls both letters out of his back pocket, handing them to Hermione. Ginny stands, putting her plate in the sink. "Make sure you tell my mum and dad not to open them until after we're gone. They'll never let us leave if you don't."

XXX

It's nearing ten o'clock in New Zealand—where the World Cup is taking place—when Harry, Ron, Hermione, and Ginny finally Apparate to their campground. Harry almost expects Mr. Weasley to appear beside them, telling them that Mrs. Weasley read the letters and wants them home immediately.

Ron seems to be thinking along the same lines, because his eyes dart around the campground. Not that he can see anything; it's almost pitch-black. "We should go get the tent re—ARGH." With a yell, Ron jumps as two hands clamp onto his shoulders from behind.

As Harry moves to pull his wand from his pocket, a husky low voice says, "Don't you know you shouldn't just Apparate into the dark? To the middle of nowhere? There's no one here for miles. No around one to hear you scr—"

Hermione beats Harry to the punch. "_Impedimenta_!"

The shadowy figure behind Ron flies back, hitting the ground. Harry takes a step forward, wand held in the air. "_Lumos." _

Five feet away, George Weasley is lying on the ground, grinning up at them. "Little tense, Ron?"

While a red-faced Ron swears and tries to steady his breathing, Harry leans down to offer George his hand to help him up. Behind him, Hermione says, "I thought I recognized your voice!"

"That so?" George ruffles Ron's hair. "_Hermione_ knows what I sound like, but you don't? Thought we were closer than that."

Ron swears again, batting George's hand away. "Shut up."

"Oh, c'mon, you were supposed to be here hours ago. We had to set up the tent all by ourselves—nearly impaled myself on one of those pole things. Least you can do is give me a good laugh." He looks around at the four of them. "Where's Dad?"

Ginny steps forward and gives George a sideways hug. "It's just us. He changed his mind at the last minute."

"That why you're late?" George moves past them, his wand held in front of him for light. "The tent's this way."

Ginny doesn't answer at first. Instead, she casts Harry a sideways glance with that pretty smile of hers, and his heart skips a beat. Without looking away from him, she says, "No, we're late because Mum told us not to wake Harry up before we had to."

"Said he looked 'peaky'," Ron adds. Even though Harry can't see his face well, he can hear the hint of amusement in his voice.

George turns around to face the group of them, walking backwards. He nods at Harry. "Wish I would've known looking peaky was all it took to get to sleep in. Would've used that all the time." He raises his voice to imitate Mrs. Weasley's. "'George, come degnome the garden!' Sorry Mum, can't. I think I'm a bit peaky. '_George_, it's two in the afternoon! Get up!' Nah, too peaky to do that. 'Get out of bed and give Ginny her doll back, Geor—'" He breaks off as Ginny gives him a small shove. He turns to face the front and looks at her over his shoulder. "You never did find that, did you?"

"I found her. What was left of her, anyway. After you used her as a substitute Bludger so you could practice your aim."

"And we were better Beaters because of it." George shines his light on a wobbly-looking tent in front of them. "Here we are. Home sweet home."

XXX

With a grunt, Hepler drags Percy Weasley's semi-conscious body to the middle of the field. He'd normally just use his wand to move him, but he figures a body flying through the air my draw more attention than one slowly creeping along. Though he supposes it's equally suspicious that the body appears to be moving on its own, since he's cast a Disillusionment Charm on himself.

He kneels beside the body and whispers, "Carry out the plan exactly as I've told you to do. If you're incapable of doing so, you will kill yourself in whatever way is most convenient at the time. You will not reveal my secrets."

Silent as possible, Hepler backs up and places himself behind the trees. He waits.

Before long, he hears a quiet voice coming from the direction of the house. "I don't see anyone. Are you sure the letter sa—_Percy_!"

A balding redhead hurries into his line of vision, and it's clear this man is another Weasley. If his hair wasn't enough to give him away, his obvious distress at finding Percy bruised and bloodied proves it.

The man shakes Percy, and then he moves his hand to check for a pulse. Before he can say anything, another person—Mrs. Weasley—runs to the middle of the field. Nearly hysterical, she crouches down and leans over her son.

"Is he alright?"

"He'll be fine, Molly."

"Let's get him into the house."

Hepler begins to breathe a sigh of relief, but he cuts off as Mr. Weasley murmurs a spell. Instantly, the man straightens up, looking around. "Someone's here."

"Then we need to get Percy out of here!"

Weasley gently shushes her, and he takes a step closer to Hepler's hiding place, twigs snapping under his feet as he walks. "Who's here? What have you done to my son?" He blindly casts a spell between a few trees, coming alarmingly close to hitting Hepler.

While it's not ideal, Hepler is prepared to fight the man and woman if he must. He can always command Percy Weasley to aid him in a duel, though he won't be much use until his injuries have healed.

"_Arthur_. We need to take Percy home." The man doesn't respond. "_Now_."

After one last look around, the man lifts his son up with magic, and he and his wife retreat to the house.

XXX

Percy returns to him, far later than Hepler wanted. But he doesn't hurt the boy yet—not when he has something he needs from him.

"Were you successful? Tell the truth."

"Yes. I feigned unconsciousness while my mother healed me. I listened to them speak, and now I've returned to you."

"Did they suspect you?"

"No."

"Good. What did you find out?" he asks, watching Weasley's face for the tiniest flicker of dishonesty.

"They left for the Quidditch World Cup today at eleven o'clock."

"Who did?"

"My sister, Ron, Harry, and Hermione."

Hepler doesn't say anything at first. It's impossible to focus when he's so angry—_so_ incredibly angry, because Harry Potter continues to ignore his warnings. Hepler doesn't like being spurned by an arrogant boy. Still, it's not as if he expected anything different. No matter.

"Where are they staying?"

"In a tent."

"Where?"

"Campsite 402. It's in the far left area of the campground, marked 'Weasley'."

Hepler doesn't wait for more. With the pair of Quidditch tickets secure in his pocket, he prepares to Apparate, watching Percy with a steady eye. "Hide. Do not allow anyone to see you, hear you, or otherwise become aware of your existence. If you do not follow these orders, or are incapable of doing so, say nothing about me. Tell them your name is Daniel Hill, and you lost your way after stumbling out of a bar drunk. You can find your way home, however, without their help. Do you understand?"

"Yes."

As a last minute thought, Hepler turns back to the boy. "Did you hear anything else of importance?"

"My parents have seen your letters. They believe you seek the Elder Wand. Or fame."

"Is the wand in Potter's possession?"

"No."

"Is he its master?"

"They heard him say that he is. At Hogwarts."

Hepler raises his voice, losing patience. "Is he the wand's master? Yes or no."

"Yes. Harry Potter is master of the Elder Wand."


End file.
